


Charlie

by Bluebird_In_My_Heart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 00:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13019118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebird_In_My_Heart/pseuds/Bluebird_In_My_Heart
Summary: Sherlock has a twin, and Mycroft has a baby sister that he adores- Charlie. When Charlie comes home from boarding school sleepless and withdrawn, the hyper analytic minds of the brothers are wracked with concern.A brothers helping their sister hurt/comfort fic.





	1. Chapter 1

Charlie looped her arms laughingly around her twin, Sherlock's, and her friend, John's, shoulders, as they made their way down the sidewalk. She talked as she always did, quickly and with a laugh bubbling below the surface.

Charlie and Sherlock could not be more different. He was hard and analytical, while she was whimsical, often found spouting bits of poetry. Sherlock was a consulting detective, and Charlie was a well known novelist, currently working on her 3rd book. They were both above average when it came to observations, but Charlie was more apt to remember the exact smile line around a passerby's eyes, while Sherlock would notice her rings, shoes, hair, etc.

While they were vastly different, they were each other's best friends and sole confidants. Since they were young, they would spend all of their time together. She was the only one to whom Sherlock would openly show affection. They would often, as children, sit cross legged on the floor, looking at one another, having long thoughtful conversations simply by watching each other's eyes, while Mycroft looked on questioningly.

They finally split, at age 11, to go to different boarding schools. They wrote fervently, until one day Charlie stopped writing back. Sherlock was shocked, they usually sent each other about a letter every few days. Months went by with only a few letters from her, and when they came home for break, Sherlock and Mycroft were shocked at her appearance. Charlie had always been thin, looking much like her twin with high cheekbones, dark gray eyes, and dark curly hair which she wore half way down her back. When she arrived home, she had easily lost 15 pounds, and her brothers could see her vertebrae through the back of her blue jumper.

Mycroft and Charlie had always been close, a slight bone of contention with Sherlock. Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship was more tumultuous, and always had been. But one area that they agreed upon was their absolute love and affection for Charlie. 

So when the hyper observant brothers first lay eyes on their sister, Sherlock, quite out of character, reached out and squeezed his brother's hand. Mycroft hesitated, just for a moment, before he squeezed back, hoping to be reassuring. Mycroft knew that Sherlock had trouble getting close to people, and his relationship with his sister was very redeeming. 

The brothers took in her shadowed eyes, looking almost bruised with sleeplessness. They noticed her slumped posture, and the way she seemed to protect her arms. She dropped her bag to the ground with a sigh, as though the load was unbearable for her. 

When Charlie finally turned to greet her brothers, they clenched as they noticed her smile coming slowly and falsely. "Hullo" She greeted in a voice they had never heard before, making no move to come closer. Her common greeting was a shout and an eager hug, even if they'd only been apart 24 hours. The brothers looked to each other.

"What has happened to you, Char?" Mycroft asked in his already low and cultured voice.

"What are you talking about" She replied without feeling. Her eyes purposefully avoided her older brother's.

"You've lost weight, you're favoring your left arm, you haven't slept well in months, you're obviously exhausted, and you have yet to hug me hello!" Sherlock nearly yelled.

Charlie looked as though she was about to speak, but she shook her head. "Please" She whispered, desperate as a prayer, "Please don't do this." The boys stood silently.

"Who." Came Mycroft's voice, low and dangerous.

Charlie looked at him with wide, terrified eyes. He leveled her stare, and she saw poorly suppressed rage. "Don't." She said finally, in a would be brave voice. "For once keep your hyper analytical ridiculously observant "deductions" to yourself, alright? Both of you!" With this she turned on her heel and headed to her room, exhausted, and scared of what her brothers would see in her.

The brother's stood in silence for a few moment. Charlie was so even tempered, and hardly ever rose her voice unless in joy. Finally, Sherlock broke the silence.

"What do you mean by "who", brother?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"It is simple to deduce, brother mine. She is clearly been through a trauma. This level of radical weight loss, change in personality, sudden lack of communication, difficulty sleeping... It cannot be contributed merely to the transition from home to boarding school. Not to someone as reasonably well adjusted as Charlie. There are several types of trauma, as you well know. And if she had been attacked in say, a mugging, she would have told us, and went to the police. That she hasn't indicates a trauma that has more shame involved. Now, what kind of shameful trauma is likely to affect a pretty young girl away at boarding school?"

Sherlock's mind reeled, and his whole body tensed. "I'll kill him." Sherlock clenched his fists tightly, and started to pace about in a tight line. Mycroft looked on, and tried to reach a hand out to place upon his brother's shoulders, which Sherlock eagerly shrugged off. Suddenly, Sherlock began to beat the wall with his fist, until Mycroft grabbed his wrist, for once gentle, and coaxed Sherlock into sitting on the coach, while he nursed his bruised knuckles.

"I feel... similar. However, anger, I fear, will only cause Charlie to shut down further. We have to approach this reasonably. She needs space right now, I'm afraid. She won't be too happy with us knowing her secret. I'm sure she has been told to keep it at all costs."

The two boys sat in silence after that, both lost in their thoughts. Sherlock did everything he could to control his rising rage. Finally, Mycroft stood, patted Sherlock once on the shoulder, and went to his room to do some of the reading he needed to get done for university. 

A few hours had passed, and Mycroft began to worry. Charlie had not made a sound. He hoped that she was sleeping. Their parents were out of town, as per usual, and he thought Charlie might want to help him prepare dinner. She had always been a great and intuitive cook.

Mycroft climbed the stairs to Charlie's room two at a time. He knocked quietly on the door, and received no reply. He knocked a little louder, and still no answer. He decided to open the door, anyways.

The sight that greeted him was one he would not soon forget. His little sister, the one he had held as a baby, the one who could always make him laugh no matter how stoic he wanted to be, the one who made him finger painted pictures of them holding hands, saying friends forever. His little sister, who was a beacon of light in the shit storm of life. 

She was sitting cross legged in the middle of the floor, in a pair of gray jeans and a navy blue wife beater. Her shoulder blades were sticking forcefully out of the thin skin that covered her back. She had an industrial razor in her right hand. Her right arm was bandaged heavily, while her left arm was bare. On it, he could see gaping wounds, the drops of blood swirling down and around her bony wrist, and onto the hardwood floor. She raised her hand again, and began to bring it down to her arm.

Mycroft moved with a rare agility, and grasped her wrist tightly but calmly, and carefully grabbed the bloodied razor, and put it on the bedside table behind him, all the while not taking his eyes off of her. She seemed slightly confused, but otherwise did not register his presence. She merely put her hands in her lap, and stared at them in a dazed way.

Confused by her response, Mycroft knelt in front of her, and tried to catch her eye. She did not seem to notice him.

"Char?" He asked softly, trying to catch her eye. No response. "Charlie!" He said a bit louder. He snapped a few times in front of her face, but she still looked down at her hands.

Increasingly worried, Mycroft looked around the room. He saw a cup of water on her bedside table, and without thinking it through too much, dumped it over her head.

With a gasp she opened her eyes wide, and looked around.

"My! What are you doing in here?" She said a bit wildly.

"Charlie, what am I doing? What were you doing?" He holds up the razor, and Charlie again looks down at her hands.

There is a long pause, the silence is heavy with the words Mycroft wants to say, yell, cry. 

"Don't tell anyone." She says finally. 

Mycroft let out a puff of air, studying her firmly. "I'll be right back." And with that he strode out of the room, only to return a moment later with a first aid kit.

Wordlessly, he knelt in front of her, and began to bandage her arm. Several wounds may have needed stitches, but he figured a butterfly bandage would do. When he was done, he fell back onto his heels, and sighed. 

"Please, My. Don't tell anyone. Sherlock-" At her twin's name her voice cracked. "Sherlock will be so angry, and Mom and Dad will just... send me away so I don't embarrass them. Please My, please."

"Alright." Mycroft said finally. "I will not tell anyone. But if you do this again, and I will know if you do, I will have to, at the very least, set up some sort of counseling for you." Charlie shrugged, and Mycroft continued somewhat awkwardly, "How long has this been going on?"

Charlie just shrugged and looked away from her brother. She tentatively reached out a hand, which Mycroft took gratefully.

"I know someone has hurt you Charlie." Mycroft began, his voice steadily rising. "Tell me who it is and I assure you, he will never hurt you again."

Charlie simply shook her head.

"Talk to me Char," His voice now gentle. "Who did this to you?"

At this moment, Sherlock burst through the door, in a voice too loud for the careful conversation his brother and sister had been having, saying "Croft, Char, how about we get started on that dinner, huh? You've been up here for-" He stopped short, and caught Mycroft's eyes. He then looked at his twin, and his heart sunk.

"Oh. Char." He said desperately. He knelt before her, next to Mycroft, and gently took her hands and raised them to his face, placing them against his cheek. "Oh Char." He repeated. 

"I'm so sorry Lock. I'm so sorry." At this, they both began to cry. Mycroft excused himself, glancing back at his siblings, a heaviness in his chest. He took the razor with him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie encounters someone from her past.

That had been the first time the brother's had found their beloved in such a state. Over the years, it happened again and again. The boys never found out who was hurting their sister, and she refused to talk about it. 

Mycroft was constantly setting Charlie up with therapists, all whom she refused to see.

Sherlock had a more action oriented approach, not allowing her to spend too long out of his sight. They had a rule, if she didn't respond to him within 6 hours, he went over to her flat. On occasion, she would have just been sleeping. But too many times, he had found her, dissociated past the point of recognition of him, and he had sat with her until she came back, talking low and smooth to her. 

He had found her with her wrist open and bleeding, and had run her to the hospital. Had visited her on the psychiatric ward when they admitted her, playing calm games of cards. Mycroft would visit too, twirling his umbrella. Charlie always cried when Mycroft visited, and he could hardly stand it. He would just hold her, and entertain dark thoughts of revenge.

For a while, Sherlock was over her flat almost every day. She went on a drinking binge that lasted well over a year. Twice she had to have her stomach pumped. Far more times than that, she ended up lost, blacked out in an alley or a stranger's bed. Mycroft was busy during this time, using his burgeoning connection to trace her phone, and carry her back to his place. 

Often, she would wake with no recollection of where she was, sometimes still drunk. Mycroft pleaded with her to stop the drinking, to stop the cutting, to please get help, to talk to him for God's sake. But Charlie never let up her secret, always just begging for forgiveness. He always gave it to her. 

Mycroft began keeping tabs on her, as soon as he was in a high enough position to do so. He too would find her far away, and try to help her come back. She had a habit of dissociating and ending up in a park or an alley, miles from her flat, always dressed inappropriately for the weather.

Sometimes, he and Sherlock would work together, if it was really bad. She seemed to be comforted by them both, and so the brothers put aside their feud when their sister was in trouble.

It had been a good few years, though. Charlie had become an extremely successful novelist. Sherlock and Mycroft both let up their obsessively watchful eye on her, for which Charlie was grateful. Things were going well for all of them, and Sherlock and Mycroft even met for dinner once a week, with Charlie, at her insistence. 

Charlie had not harmed herself in almost 4 years. She was drinking moderately. Her brothers were elated. They felt a calm they had not felt since she came home, beaten and bruised, at age 11.

Charlie was walking with John and Sherlock, laughing and practically skipping. The boys were celebrating the end of a particularly grueling case, and Charlie had come along to their favorite Thai restaurant. 

In her gleeful state, she had no idea the wounds that were about to be ripped open. No one would suspect.

In a mere breath, her hard earned health would be taken from her. 

A low voice called out her name. Charlie froze, and Sherlock saw the color drain from her face. Charlie turned, slowly, the moment lasting hours. Hurrying across the street was an older man, a professor by the looks of it, thought Sherlock, waving at Charlie. He was average height and build, with salt and pepper hair, light blue eyes, and a slight bump on the bridge of his nose. He was not unattractive, but something in his eyes were reminiscent of ice. Sherlock narrowed his brows.

"Charlie, how lovely it is to see you!" The man said as if they were old friends who had just happened to fall out of touch. He pulled a very reluctant Charlie into an embrace. Sensing her discomfort, Sherlock made a move to come forward. The man pulled back, and Charlie stayed silent, looking horrified. "I'm just in town for a conference, and I must be off, but hopefully I'll see you around." He responded with a wink, while Charlie just continued to stare. He grabbed her arm and pulled her forward, and whispered something into her ear that the boys couldn't hear. With that, he waved joyfully, and took off, much more spry than a man his age should be.

"Alright, Charlie?" John asked with concern. He tried to lay a hand on her arm, but she jerked away as if she had been burned. She just stared at him with wide eyes.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Sherlock's eyes moved rapidly over her face, and he saw the familiar beginnings of dissociation in her eyes.

"No. No Charlie, stay with me. Who was that man?" Sherlock asked gently, his hand hesitating close to her. His famous intuition told him who the man could possibly be, and he was torn between chasing the man and comforting his terrified sister. As it always did when it came to Charlie, his heart won out.

Charlie just continued to stare, seeing something the boys couldn't quite understand.

"I'm going to walk home. I'll see you later." She said, as though every word was a tremendous effort. Her voice was incredibly low.

"What are you going to do? Who was that man?" Sherlock said knowingly.

"We'll talk later" She called, her tone insistent, as she turned on her heel and ran.

Sherlock grabbed her arm as she turned to flee. "No. Charlie. Please. Don't do this again."

Charlie looked at him with dead eyes. "I just." A pause. Then, in a mumble. "Sometimes the air helps."

"You have an hour Charlie. Come back to the flat in an hour. Ok?" She nodded lightly. Sherlock leaned in close to her, whispering so John could not hear. "You've been doing so well sweetheart. I'm trusting you. Be strong. Call me if you need to." A pause, and with a slight tone of defeat, "I'm checking your arms when you get home."

Charlie nodded, then turned to run.

Sherlock hesitated, but began to follow again. John grabbed his arm. "Let her go."

"You don't know her the way I do John! You don't know what she's capable of!" Sherlock tugged against his arm.

"You promised that you would trust her, Sherlock. Wasn't that your deal? Once things started to get better? That you would let her come to you, so she wouldn't feel, how did she put it?" John knew, in very vague terms, that Charlie had had some trouble in the past.

"Like an invalid." Sherlock sighed. "Alright, I'll give her a bit. But then, I'm going to find her. "

Uneasily, the two men hailed a cab, and headed back to their flat.

***

Charlie ran without direction, needing the ache in her muscles to ground her. She was beginning to dissociate, severely, and she wanted to stay on this side of a black out. She ran and ran until her breath was coming in staccato bursts, and then she collapsed on a bench in the park she had found. She vaguely recognized her surroundings, but things were beginning to take on a surreal quality, and she didn't know if she had been there before. Sometimes, she confused dreams with reality.

Despite how she fought it, everything faded to black, and time lost its meaning. Without knowing it, she curled into herself, falling like a rag doll to the nearest bench, rocking back and forth, nails dug into her bony cheeks.

***  
Hours had past, 2 hours and 48 minutes, Sherlock knew, and Charlie had yet to respond to his 15 frantic texts, and 6 phone calls. 

"This is your fault." Sherlock said bitingly, glaring at his friend who sat in that leather chair, reading the paper. "It's going to get dark soon, and who knows where she is!" Sherlock continued to pace.

"Don't you have a six hour rule, Sherlock? She's probably fine, just grabbing a nap at her flat. Or maybe she went to the cinema on her own, she does that sometimes, right?"

"She said she'd be back in an hour! And even someone as daft as you could see how that man affected her!" Taking in John's furrowed brow, Sherlock quickly issued an apology. "Sorry John, you know what I mean." John just snorted, used to it. What he wasn't used to, however, was the doubt he heard in Sherlock's continued speech. "I never should have let her go off on her own. It was wholly irresponsible of me."

"She's responsible for herself, Sherlock. She's a grown woman. She will be fine."

"Again, you show your lack of insight. You have no idea what she will do to herself!"

At this, John's eyes widened, only slightly. John was unaware of the extent of Charlie's psychiatric history. He had met her only a few years prior, when she was just beginning to get healthy. He didn't notice, or at least never dared to comment on, the white scars that wound their way up her arms, or the few, thick, jagged ones that lined her arteries. 

"What do you mean Sherlock?" Sherlock waved a hand to brush him off, keeping his steady pace. "Do, do you mean she might hurt herself?"

"Yes, of course I do, John." Sherlock grimaced, and then gritted his teeth. He whipped out his phone as though making a difficult decision, and hit a speed dial button.

"Hello brother, to what do I owe this pleasure." Came the condescending voice of Mycroft.

"Mycroft. It's Charlie."

Mycroft heard the unfamiliar tug of emotion in his brother's voice. "What's happened to her?"

"Someone came up to her on the street today. I have a horrible feeling that it was him." Mycroft made a small noise into the receiver. "She was visibly upset, she seemed as though she was beginning to dissociate." A pause and a sigh. "God. It's been so long, She's been doing so much better, I just can't-"

Mycroft interrupted, trying to keep his voice all business. "What happened, Sherl?"

"She ran off, promising to be home in an hour. I was going to go after her… She has not responded in nearly three hours, Mycroft. Can you get your people to track her phone."

"Already on it, brother." There was a heavy silence, in which Sherlock's ragged breath was highlighted. "She's in Renaissance Park."

"In a cab I can probably get there in 40 minutes, depending on traffic..."

"Alright, I'm only 15 minutes away. I shall retrieve her." Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock."

"Yes brother?"

Too long of a pause. "Just stay strong alright? We'll get through tonight, and there's no reason to believe that she'll return to her old ways."

"But-"

"We always knew that relapse was possible."

Another sigh. "I know. Alright brother. Please bring her back here." Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice steady.

With that, the brothers hung up.

13 minute later, Mycroft arrived at the park, and sped to the area where the locater indicated his sister would be. He tried to keep his face impassive and calm, but his thumping heart betrayed him. Not again, he thought desperately, she's been doing so well. He wondered briefly who the person who came up to her on the street was, wondered what he would do to him when he found him, but he ignored those thoughts in pursuit of his sister.

When he saw her, his heart dropped. She was sitting on a bench, rocking, pale white, scratches running down her face. Drops of blood stained the collar of her gray jumper. 

"Charlie?" Mycroft said calmly, crouching down in front of her. "Charlie can you hear me?" She made no indication that she heard him. However, her hands were pressed firmly to her ears, so that could be a factor. Slowly, and as gently as he could, Mycroft reached for her hands.

The moment his skin touched hers, she jerked violently away from him. Her voice rang out, crumbled as though she had been screaming, "Don't touch me!"

"Ok, ok. It's ok Charlie, it's just me. It's Mycroft. Your brother." Her observed her with his unfailing eyes, and noticed the tremor that now ran through her body. Her arms were now wrapped protectively around her, her fingers digging into her upper arms.

Mycroft sighed. He had seen her in this state too many time to think that he would be able to snap her out of it without external stimuli. Knowing he has in for a fight, he picked up the shaking girl, scooping her, one arm beneath her knees, the other cradling her shoulders

Charlie began to thrash, slamming her fists into her brother's chest. "Let me go let me go let me go!" She was obviously in a panic, her bony limbs making it nearly impossible for Mycroft to safely hold her. 

Mycroft shot a glare to the passerby who dared to look at him in objection. Luckily, he thought, his car was not too far away.

Charlie slumped in his arms after a full minute of activity, and instead rested her head against his chest. Mycroft hoped that meant that she recognized him, but he was not too hopeful.

Once they got to the car, Mycroft carefully lowered his sister into the black leather seat, and scooted her over. She immediately pressed her forehead to the window. With a startling sound, she slammed her forehead into the glass. Mycroft quickly grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into the center seat. She looked up to him for a second, and whispered "'Croft", before huddling up into a ball and closing her eyes. She began to rock again.

Mycroft whispered comforting words to her, but it seems her mild lucidity at banging her head had not lasted, and soon he gave up, and requested that the driver play some classical music instead.

***

Charlie was non responsive when they got back to Sherlock's flat, and so Mycroft again lifted up his staring, tortured sister, and ascended the steps to Sherlock's flat. This time, she put up no fight. Mycroft knew this was a bad sign. He knocked on the door with his foot, not caring if he seemed undignified.

Sherlock opened the door in an instant. Upon seeing his sister, his mouth opened, just slightly, at his sharp intake of breath.

The brothers look at each other, and nodded. John stood off to the side, wringing his hands, not knowing what to do.

"She's pretty far gone, Sherlock."

"Shower?" Sherlock asked in a quiet voice.

"I'd say so."

Mycroft carried Charlie to the bathroom, and Sherlock and he carefully took off her jumper, somewhat awkwardly given her position in Mycroft's arms. She started to cry, in a distant detached way, which caused Mycroft and Sherlock to share a look. Charlie was often running around, clad in a wife beater and boy shorts. She had no concept of modesty. They knew this wasn't a good sign.

Deciding to leave her jeans and oatmeal camisole on to save her from more tears, Mycroft lowered her into the tub, where she immediately collapsed and curled into fetal position. Sherlock reached and turned on the shower head, on as cold a setting as he could get. The stream hit Charlie directly on the top of the head.

Reminiscent of the first time Mycroft had dumped a glass of water over her head, Charlie gasped and stretched up, shaking her head. She took a few breaths, and opened her eyes. Quickly, she closed them again. 

Sherlock turned off the light. Sometimes the dark was less difficult for her. Moments passed, until she finally moved, kneeling up shakily. Dazed, she turned the shower off. Mycroft silently handed her a towel, which she stared at for a second before wrapping around her thin frame.

"Are you with us Char?" Came Sherlock's shaking voice.

Charlie stood silently for a moment, dripping water.

"Char?" Sherlock said more insistently.

"Yeah" She whispered finally, in a voice that didn't belong to her.

Sherlock and Mycroft just nodded. Sherlock extended his arms, and Charlie loped her limbs loosely around his waist and put her head on his shoulder, her now wet locks dripping down the back of her twin's shirt.

After a few silent moments, John's voice came awkwardly out of the background. "Anyone interested in a cuppa?"

Sherlock and Charlie disentangled, and Charlie sent him a semi confused look. Mycroft sighed, and answered for them. "Yes. She takes hers black three sugars."

Charlie looked back and forth between her brothers as John left the room, he was looking relieved to have something to contribute. "No." She said almost pleadingly, seemingly talking to herself. Then, burying her face in her hands, "I can't do this again." She began to shake once more, and Sherlock left the room to get her a change of clothes that she kept in his flat.

Noticing the bruising starting on Mycroft's chest, Charlie reached out her hand, pressing it palm down on the bruise, and bowed her head. "I'm sorry, My"

At this, his resolve broke, and he snatched his little sister into his arms, holding her tighter than comfort should allow. She remained limp, until he finally felt a slight squeeze back. He was ashamed to feel the unfamiliar tears burning in the back of his eyes.

Sherlock came back with her clothes, dark maroon skinny jeans, a black wife beater, and a charcoal cardigan. Charlie nodded sleepily against Mycroft's chest.

"You have one minute to change" Mycroft said knowingly, reluctantly releasing his sister. He left the bathroom, to Charlie looking small and afraid.

Sherlock rested his back against the shut door, and buried his face in his hands. The brothers looked at each other, and the pain and fear they were both feeling was communicated wordlessly.

Charlie came out about a minute later, the brief moment alone seeming to drain her. Her wet clothes were strewn on the floor- she had never been neat. That was Mycroft's trait. She looked around, not knowing what to do with herself. 

Sherlock took her by the elbow and lead her to the couch, placing her lightly down. Usually after an episode she needed comfort and direction. Mycroft grabbed a worn blanket and placed it around her moving shoulders; the shaking had not yet subsided.

John came back with the tea, and handed Charlie's to her. She looked at him a little blankly, but nodded her thanks.

The shaking and silence worried the boys, but they were grateful she didn't fall into another familiar pattern after something like this happened, and they could only fear that it would come soon. The energy that she had to dispel, that's how she described it, just energy, bad dark terrible energy that she could only control through marks in her skin, an almost romanticized blood letting. It would come, they knew, and they just had to be prepared.

At her worst, Mycroft had prepared a safe room in his home. It was completely void of sharp objects, and it locked from the outside. The sheets to the bed were sown onto the mattress, and there was absolutely no where she could hang herself from. The walls were covered with soft material. It was done up in soft yellows and blues. It still existed, and Mycroft was hoping he wouldn't have to open the door, after it being closed for nearly 4 years now. 

That sat in silence for 20 or so minutes, the boys all looking worriedly at Charlie, who just continued to stare at her tea. She broke the silence, surprising them, saying in a scratchy hushed voice. "Lock?"

"Yeah, Char?" He moved closer to his sister.

"Could you play for me?" Her hands were shaking.

Sherlock broke into a grin despite himself. "Sure sister."

Sherlock went to get his violin, tuned it quickly, and began to play.

Charlie seemed to relax somewhat, placing the tea on the table and leaning her head back. The shaking started to subside, noticed Mycroft.

They all sat enjoying Sherlock's music, and for a little over a quarter of an hour, things seemed to be going ok.

All of a sudden, Charlie sat up straight in her chair. Sherlock hesitated for a note, something he rarely ever does, but Mycroft nodded to him to keep playing. 

Charlie started bouncing her leg up and down, and Mycroft squinted his eyes at her. He moved a bit closer, being careful not to touch her, and said, "Alright, Char?"

She waved him off, looking intently at the ground. Her motions became slightly more erratic. There seemed to be a twitch in her left shoulder, and she was grinding her teeth. Her erect posture suddenly doubled over and her fists clenched. Sherlock stopped playing.

She sat up quickly at the change in noise, and rose gracelessly to her feet. She looked wildly around. "I need to get going." She said in a would be strong voice.

Sherlock quickly stalked over to the door, standing in front of it. "No, Charlie."

"Come on Lock, I'm fine. I just want to go home and have a nice rest." Her voice was too forced calm, and her hands were shaking wildly by her side.

"No." Said Sherlock and Mycroft together.

"God!" Charlie shouted. Her body seemed to be out of control. "I'm not a goddamn child or anything you know. I'm fine! I just need to get OUT of here, for chrissake."

Charlie started pacing rapidly around the room. The boys just watched as her walking became erratic.

She moved suddenly towards the door, but being a good 6 inches shorter than her brother, she knew she could not get out by force. "Fuck!" She said, and turned on her heel, clenching her fists again and again.

"Charlie," Mycroft's voice was low, and he said her name slowly. "You need to calm down."

"I do NOT need to calm down. Let me out of here guys. Seriously, I need to go. I need to go, don't you understand that? Jesus Christ." Pleading.

Mycroft stood lightly on his feet. "Charlie, we all know what will happen if we let you leave." His voice was low and smooth and his movement precise and gentle, a stark contrast to Charlie.

Charlie suddenly let out a yell, and crouched to the ground. She brought her hands up to her head and pulled strongly on her hair.

Mycroft leapt towards her and grabbed her by the wrists. 

At his touch, she screamed, "Don't touch me!", cowering away from him. Mycroft quickly let go and Charlie sunk into the corner of the room, knees pulled to her chest, head down.

Sherlock left his post at the door and crouched in front of her. "Char?" He whispered. She only whimpered in response. "Char?" He looked back to Mycroft and nodded 'no good.'

Mycroft was slightly better at talking to Charlie when she was in this state of mind, as Sherlock's voice tended to get too emotional and could occasionally trigger her further. Sherlock, when he saw his sister in this state of mind, became slightly irrational and forgot what was appropriate to say, sometimes allowing emotion to get the best of him.

The brother's switched places, and now Mycroft crouched before his folded sister.

"Charlie?" No Reply. "Charlie!" She lifted her head at the authority in his voice, and looked at him with dead eyes. "Sweetheart" His voice was back to being gentle. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

At this Charlie began cry, tears staining her cheeks. "I'm confused." She whispered. She lowered her head again.

"Do you know who I am hun?" Charlie just began to cry harder. "Do you know where you are?"

"Everything is going away, Croft."

He reached out a hand and lightly touched her shoulder, hoping to ground her.

"DO NOT TOUCH ME!" She roared, and she suddenly jumped up, knocking Mycroft over, and ran to the door. 

Just as she was reaching for the doorknob, John grabbed her around her waist. "GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME!"

She turned around and became quite animalistic, attacking John with all her strength. John just held her close as she struggled and screamed. Her arms were pinned by her side.

"Charlie, Charlie. Calm down. Take it easy, huh?" John's words meant very little to her.

She managed to get an arm loose and began to swing it forward when Mycroft grabbed her wrist. She twisted out of John's grasp, and Mycroft quickly grabbed her other wrist as her fist swung towards him. 

Charlie whimpered and fought with all her strength.

Mycroft quickly turned her body while she was off balance, crossing her arms in front of her, and holding them tight across her chest, a wrist still in each hand. A restraint. A position they both, unfortunately, knew well. She began to kick out wildly, her feet not touching the ground.

Mycroft lowered her, still flailing, so he was sitting with his legs in a V, the kinetic Charlie between them.

"Sherlock, legs." Sherlock quickly grabbed onto her ankles and held them firmly to the floor.

Charlie continued screaming, bashing her head into Mycroft's already bruised chest.

"Char, char, it's us. Sherlock and Mycroft. We're not hurting you. No one is hurting you! Please, calm down!" Sherlock said desperately. 

"John", said Mycroft quite wearily, "Will you hold her head still?"

John, never one to be unsure in moments of true crisis, stalked over from his safe distance away and held her head kindly but firmly.

Charlie was paralyzed, and that terrible dark energy coursed through her. Not being able to move was unbearable. Her whole body tensed and she continued to groan and scream and squirm. The corners of her mind were turning black and she fought against unconsciousness. She bit viciously through her lower lip.

"Stop that hun. You're hurting yourself." John's voice was steady but authoritative. He had experience with psychosis, and though he understood that Charlie was not psychotic, he knew intuitively that the same rules applied.

After what seemed like hours, her body started to relax, exhausted. Slowly, and without speaking, John released her head and took a careful step back. She did not move.

"Hey Char? I'm gonna let go of your legs now, alright?" Sherlock said. This was their typical routine after she got physically out of control. Take it nice and easy, let her know when she was being let go. She nodded, her eyes closed. Cautiously, he released her ankles, his hands still hovering over them.

Mycroft was the next to speak. "Charlie. Can you answer me?" He asked gently and kindly. He felt her nod against him. "Ok hun, ok sweetheart. Are you ok? Can I let go now?" He felt another nod, and he loosened his grip on her now bruised wrists.

Charlie whimpered again, and curled herself into Mycroft's lap. Her bottom rested between his outspread legs, both of her legs over Mycroft's right one. Hunched into herself, she leaned heavily against Mycroft's chest.

John came quietly over. "Charlie." He said her name slowly as not to scare her. "I'm gonna check your pulse, ok?" She nodded again, her eyes closed. She felt John's hand on her wrist and initially flinched. He was patient, and waited for her to hold out her arm. His fingers were pressed firmly to her radial artery, with the precision of a practiced practitioner. 

"150, abouts" John murmured. "A bit high for my liking. Can you open your eyes love?" Charlie, with effort, opened her eyes, and he saw that her pupils were dilated. John addressed his next question to Mycroft. "Should I get her something to calm her down? She's acutely stressed."

"No!" The boys both shouted at once. 

At John's confused look, Sherlock explained. "She, she just can't be intoxicated in any form right now, John. We've tried it before and have gotten terrible results."

"Alright, alright." He raised his hands. "Charlie, I'm gonna have to take a look at that lip. Can you turn towards me hun?" She shook her head. Blood was trickling down her chin and staining both her teeth and Mycroft's shirt red.

"Charlie, I am a doctor. It's John. I'm not going to hurt you, but I think you may need a few stitches." Charlie began to cry again, but slowly turned her head back towards John. With his gentle hands he examined the wound. "This is going to need stitches hun. I'm going to get my kit and be right back."

Charlie curled back into Mycroft, while he soothingly rubbed her back.

John returned with his kit, and knelt in front of her. He gently went through the motions of stitching her lip. She put up no protest, only wincing slightly. She needed 4 stitches.

They all sat in silence, while Charlie's hand snaked up to her lip, pulling lightly on her stitches.

"Cut it out Char," Said Mycroft, grabbing her wrist again, the annoyance in his voice only for her benefit, she'd do anything to stay in her brother's good graces.

Silently she lowered her hands.

More silence followed. John went to start a fire, and Sherlock sat next to his brother, reaching out somewhat hesitantly to hold his sister's hand. She gave him a small smile, and squeezed his hand lightly.

Sherlock squeezed her hand back, and cleared his throat. He gulped somewhat hesitantly. "Char? I want to ask you a question..." The confidence that always laced his voice faltered.

Charlie did not respond. Sherlock decided to continue. "Who was that man today?"

Charlie yanked away her hand as if it had been burned. "I don't want to talk about it." Her voice was a whisper in a tornado.

Mycroft responded, a bit more assured. His deductions rarely failed him. "Was it him?"

Charlie whipped her head around, and glared into her brothers eyes. Well, glare perhaps wasn't the right word. She narrowed her lids, and manipulated her eyebrows, but her eyes just looked dead and scared. "We are not going to talk about this."

Mycroft sighed, and placed his hand again on her bony back. "We can protect you. We can find him, and he will never bother you again."

At this, Charlie crumbled. "He said... he said..." Charlie erupted into outlandish sobs.

"What did he say Char. You can tell us. I promise." Sherlock's words came out soft and slow. He nodded to John to leave the room. John padded upstairs quickly, feeling guilty to be so relieved to be away from this emotional night.

"I can feel it. Lock, I can still feel it, I can always feel it." Her words came out a bit mumbled, and she seemed to be starting to dissociate again.

"Take it easy Charlie. Let's just take it slow. What happened today?" Mycroft, always the voice of reason. 

"He.. He uh..." She sounded much younger then herself.

Sherlock took on his tone of deduction. "Well, from what I could tell, the man was in his mid 60's, seemed to be a professor by his choice of clothing, divorced, here off of holiday, pretty well off. He came over to Charlie, and grabbed her shoulders, to which you," Sherlock briefly touched Charlie's hand, "responded with fear, as evidenced by your shaking and shortness of breath. He pulled you towards him, whispered in your ear, and then left in a cheery manner. You then ran away."

"Yes, that's about what you told me Sherl." Mycroft responded nodding. "Char?" She mumbled in return. "What did he say to you?"

With bitterness, she bit out, "You're still a tasty little slut, aren't you?" She began to sob in earnest.

"I'll fucking kill the bastard!" Sherlock leapt up to his feet and began pacing rapidly, his hands clenching and unclenching. "What is his name!" He practically yelled into Charlie's face.

Charlie's lower, stitched lip dropped, and she quickly turned her head and burrowed herself into Mycroft's chest again.

"Jesus Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed. "You're scaring her." He put his hand protectively on the top of her head. "Are you alright sweetheart?"

At this, Charlie stood up, shaking again. "No, Mycroft, I'm not bloody alright! Fuck! I don't want to talk about this. I can't.... I can't believe... he just.... he touched my shoulder." Her face crumbles slightly. "He fucking touched me! I just... I can't-I can't- I won't let it happen again!" 

"Charlie, please. Sit back down. You need to calm down. I understand that it's been a very traumatic and trying day, but we don't need you to get worked up again. Please Charlie, just sit down."

"Mmmmmmm!" was all Charlie could manage.

"How about we just call it a night, huh? You're exhausted, and you need to rest." Mycroft suggested.

"No." She replied strongly.

The boys nodded at each other. She was prone to night terrors.

"We will not leave you alone. Would you like to stay here or with me?" Mycroft asked.

Charlie couldn't seem to decide. "I don't know. I just want to go home and be alone."

"No way, sister. You know we can't let that happen. We know what will happen." Sherlock said gently.

Charlie just mumbled something that her brothers couldn't understand.

"What was that sweetheart?" Asked Mycroft.

"Just let it happen!" She said, passion in her voice. "Just fucking let it happen. Whatever, it doesn't matter anymore! I don't care!" Both brothers moved closer to her.

"We care, Char. You've been doing so well. You don't need to go back to that..." Mycroft said soothingly.

"You don't understand. You just don't understand. I need this." Shame. "I can't. I can't do this. I can't.... I need it to stop."

She curled her hands into fists and placed them firmly against her forehead, whimpering and taking a few struggling breaths.

"Breathe with me Charlie." Sherlock said. He reached for her hands, uncurled them gently, and placed them flat against his chest. Another common pose, half forgotten in the years of health. 

Her breathing calmed, and she bent her elbows and pressed herself against Sherlock's chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and held her firmly. "I'm here, Charlie."

Mycroft watched the scene, and seemed to make a decision. "You're staying at my place. Indefinitely, Charlie. I'm sorry."

"Don't do this to me. Please." She tilted her head upwards, practically touching Sherlock's chin. "Lock, how about you just stay with me at my flat?" She suggested hopefully.

"Not secure enough." Mycroft answered for him.

"He's right, Charlie, as much as I loathe to admit it." Sherlock could feel Charlie smile against him. "I'll stay with you at Mycroft's though." He offered.

Charlie just sighed. "Fine." And after that, she refused to speak.

Sherlock bounded up the steps to tell John he'd be gone for a bit. John just nodded, and offered to help in whatever way possible. Sherlock gave a light grin, forced, and hurried back to his family.

The trio headed to Charlie's flat, aided by Mycroft's car, of course, and Sherlock was sent up to collect some clothes and bath things. Charlie just stared moodily out the window.

The ride was silent, and only after ten stubborn minutes did Charlie reach out and gently squeeze Sherlock's hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sherlock, Mycroft, and Charlie fell into a familiar routine once they reached Mycroft's flat.

Mycroft went ahead and took all potentially dangerous objects out of the common areas and locked them in a box that he kept under his bed.

Sherlock kept his arm around his sister, who was still stewing in a stony silence.

Charlie focused all her energy on breathing, and distractedly ran her finger over a large scar lining her right wrist.

When Mycroft was done with the sharps, he rejoined his siblings. Wordlessly, he led them to Charlie's room. Not the safe room, but the one that she, or on the rare occasion Sherlock, would use to stay the night.

The room itself was lovely, done up in purples and reds and yellows. Though she would often use this room for social visits, the precautions her brother insisted upon remained. There were two full size beds, no mirror, and a bathroom that did not lock. Charlie felt like a prisoner.

Charlie shrugged off Sherlock’s arm from her shoulder, and moved unsteadily towards her bed. She sat cross legged on the edge of it, staring a bit distantly into her hands.

Mycroft cleared his voice, breaking the tenuous silence they had fallen into. “Charlie, can you do some rates for us?” She nodded. "One to ten it for me, hun. How dissociated are you right now?" Mycroft asked.

The safety scales the siblings had worked out moved to the forefront of all their minds. They had all hoped to never need them again.

"Maybe a four and half," she answered quietly.

A four and a half they could work with. Anything above a five and a half, there was a great risk for self harm. Anything above an eight and a half usually lead to a black out. She usually lost her ability to speak around seven or so, and her ability to hear meaningfully around an eight.

Sherlock moved closer, and stood straight backed next to his brother. He loathed the need for these questions. He loathed that man who had hurt his sister. He wished to remain pleasant for Charlie, but his sentiment and rage betrayed him. He laced his fingers behind his back, and squeezed his hands together. He tightened his jaw almost imperceptibly.

“Alright,” Mycroft smiled tightly and took a breath. “How badly do you want to hurt yourself?" He continued, his voice assuming a terrible casual air, as though these questions didn’t chill him, as though he didn’t fear the answer.

There was a pause in which the brothers forced themselves to remain still, while Charlie lowered her head. "About a seven," she mumbled.

"Ok.” Mycroft tensed and Sherlock looked sideways at him. “That's good to know."

Hurriedly, Sherlock spoke, knowing full well that this high a score warranted a chaperone. “Well then, who do you want to stay with you, Char?"

Charlie just shook her head.

"You know the rules, sister mine," Mycroft said, not unkindly.

They listened to the clock ticking for several moments. Charlie sighed, and finally pointed at Sherlock.

Mycroft forced a smile into his face. “Well then,” he said, with a false cheer that clashed horribly with the mood. “I’ll expect you to get some rest. Sleep well.” 

Charlie nodded miserably, face still tilted downward. Mycroft’s face grew strained with sadness, and he stepped towards her, putting his hands lightly of either side of her head. Showing a rare amount of tenderness, he kissed her on the forehead. Charlie smiled tiredly.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. “I have to be at work tomorrow I’m afraid, but I assume you can take some time off from your... consultations, brother?”

Sherlock waved a hand at him, “Yes, of course.” 

Mycroft cast a glance to Charlie who had begun to take off her shoes. “Do get me if you need anything,” he said, voice low.

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft left, looking back to Charlie once more as he exited the room.

As soon as Mycroft left the room, Charlie’s face crumpled and her frame shook with sobs.

Sherlock’s face softened immediately, eyebrows knit together with concern. He hurried to sit next to her on the bed, put an arm around her and pulled her tight against his side.

She leaned into him, turning to clutch his shirt and cried heavily into it. 

“Sherlock,” she started, “I can’t do this, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this again. Please Sherlock.”

Sherlock held her even tighter, feeling unsure of what to say. He channeled John, dear gentle John, and said simply, “You’re going to be alright. I promise.”

At this, Charlie choked, but nodded and continued to cry, increasingly softly, until she had tired herself out enough to fall asleep.

Sherlock shifted Charlie under the covers, tucking her in lightly. He reached to put off the light, and sat himself on the other bed. He tented his fingers beneath his chin, and watched with sad eyes, the furrowed brows of his sister, restless even in sleep.

***

Charlie shot up in her bed, leaning forward, hair half covering her face. 

She looked around her, a bit wildly, and saw Sherlock in the other bed, slumped with his neck tilted against the headboard.

Guilt tore up her throat as she realized he had fallen asleep watching over her.

As quietly as she could, she rose from her bed, kicking at the sheets that have woven themselves around her ankles.

Her socked feet hit the floor, and she began to make her way to the door of her room.

Her pulse raced erratically, and she shoved a fist inside her mouth so she wouldn’t scream out.  
Once outside the room, she slammed herself back into the wall, sliding down it until she was folded against the baseboard. It was here that she tried to regain her breath.

The events of the day pressed hard against her skull. He had touched her. He had grabbed her shoulder and said terrible things.  
It wasn’t your fault, she said to herself. It wasn’t your fault. Her breath hitched. It wasn’t your fault…right?

She banged her head, just once, against the wall. The pain gave her a moment reprieve away from the line of thinking that had given her so many broken nights. She rose to shaky feet and made her way towards the kitchen, hoping for a glass of water.

Her hands shook and shook as she reached for a glass and clumsily turned on the tap, struggling not to drop the glass on the floor.

She downed the water quickly.

She glanced to the glass, and the idea took hold of her.

She hadn’t had nightmares like this in some time. It had been so real, so much like before. 

She looked around her and seeing no sign of either of her brothers, she wrapped the glass in a dishtowel to dampen the sound, and hurriedly slammed it into the tile floor. 

She knelt quickly, opened the towel, and found with a trained eye the perfect shard to use. 

She pushed up her sleeve and placed the glass to her inner arm.

Everything around her was so surreal, so terribly close to her, so far from her understanding. She was small and lost and the wounds she had been trying to heal for years felt raw and torn apart. She felt delicate and abused, like a butterfly with its wings torn off.

She took a deep breath in. Something in her screamed for her to stop, and something a bit quieter reminded her she hadn’t hurt herself in 4 years.

In her mind, she saw his face. She heard his words, louder still.

“Shut up,” she said out loud. Still she heard his voice. Could feel his warm breath on her. Time started to warp and lose meaning, her chest burning. “SHUT UP!” She shouted, the tip of the glass pressed into her arm as she clenched, just enough to form a single droplet of blood.

She startled as the lights in the kitchen came on, Sherlock standing with his mouth just ever so slightly open, his hair tussled and unruly from sleep.

“Charlie,” he said, taking a slow step towards her. His voice caught, imperceptible to anyone other than a Holmes. “You don’t want to do this. Please, put that down now.”

Charlie replied with one sad, broken syllable, “Lock.” She loosened her grip on the glass.

In two long strides, Sherlock made his way to her. His heart was pounding, and his chest uncomfortably tight. He knelt in front of her, looking at her inquisitively as she avoided his eyes.

“Charlie,” he said, his voice so quiet and kind. “Please. It’s alright, let me see the glass.” He held his hand out, and Charlie raised her eyes to look at him.

A tense moment passed, and she relinquished the shard of glass into his hand. He placed it behind him and threw his arms around her, as her tears increased in urgency.

By this time Mycroft had found his way into the kitchen, disheveled in his dressing gown and sleeping outfit. 

“What’s happened?” He asked, making his way to the twins. He looked to Charlie, saw the spot of red on her still outstretched arm. Without conscious effort, names of therapists and treatment facilities and connections he could use to provide the best care flew through his mind. 

“It’s alright Mycroft.” said Sherlock, pulling himself back to study his sister’s face once more. “A nightmare, right Char?” She nodded miserably.

Mycroft spun on his heel to retrieve the first aid kit, and came back.

“I’m alright, Croft. It’s alright.” Charlie said, squirming away from Sherlock. She pulled her knees up to her chest. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” She began to cry in earnest.

“Now, it’s alright. Let me see your arm.” Mycroft knelt before her, cleaned the wound carefully, cascading her with soft words. He placed a bandage over the mark.

Mycroft shifted and settled back on his heels. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Charlie kept her eyes down. “No, n-not right now.”

“Tomorrow, then,” said Sherlock, making his way to stand, helping his sister up.

“Tomorrow,” said Mycroft.


End file.
